


That We May Have Cider

by DarthNickels



Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Domestic, M/M, Multi, awkward dinner, hospitality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: Late summer, 1921: Mary and Matthew are stranded at the train station, and spend the night in a very peculiar sort of household.
Relationships: Mary/Matthew (background), Thomas Barrow/Edward Courtenay
Series: The Trees Sweetly Blooming [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581772
Comments: 18
Kudos: 205





	That We May Have Cider

**Author's Note:**

> Small sequel to Wassail, Wassail, about the little house in York.

Anna sat, very patiently, holding Lady Mary’s hand. Her Ladyship was staring through the station office window, where Mr. Matthew was engaged in a very heated conversation on the telephone. Truth be told, Anna was also watching Mr. Matthew get more and more frustrated, but she pretended to be entirely focused on her ladyship’s wellbeing. Lady Mary’s other hand—pale, fine-boned, soft—was draped elegantly over her very pregnant belly.

“I’m sure something will open up,” Anna said, said, encouragingly. Lady Mary looked as though she wanted to say something cruel in response, but she held her tongue. Anna didn’t usually have this much patience for Her Ladyship’s moods, but she was _awfully_ pregnant. Women were allowed certain liberties in trying times.

She really shouldn’t be traveling at all, in her condition, but true to form, Lady Mary had insisted—_I’ve got to get out of this house, I’ll go mad shut up in here._ _Besides,_ _Matthew says if I continue to terrorize the staff they’ll rise up and kill us in our beds_.

He wasn’t far off the mark, to be honest.

Meanwhile, Mr. Matthew wasn’t making any progress, and Anna turned to scan the mass of people. Trains were still pulling up to the station, spilling forth more passengers onto a platform filled to bursting with stranded travelers. She wondered if any of them had managed to find a place to stay for the night, where they had come from and where they would go. Here was a woman with three children clinging to her, here an older couple eyeing the crush with disdain, here a blind man with his stick—

Hold on—

Mr. Courtenay didn’t notice her, naturally, but she managed to lock eyes with Thomas—they shared a long look, _should I say something or will you—?_

When last they met, there had been some…unpleasantness, between them. In retrospect, the exact nature of Thomas’—_arrangement_— should have been blisteringly obvious, but Anna wasn’t one to hear hoofbeats and shout ‘zebra’. Still, from the way John told it, things had gotten well out of hand, and disaster only narrowly averted. As an apology for her small part in the hullabaloo, she’d give them a chance to quietly slip away unnoticed.

For a long moment, she thought Thomas would take her up on it.

But somewhere along the way, Thomas had lost his stomach for lies of omission. He sighed, then turned to whisper in Mr. Courtenay’s ear. The other man brightened, replied with eagerness, and soon he was tap-tap-tapping his way to Anna’s bench.

“Milady?” she ventured, “I think you have a caller”. Mary looked over, and managed a smile at the sight of the two men.

“Gracious! What a happy coincidence,” she said. “Please forgive me if I don’t stand, I’m afraid I’m rather tired out. How have you been?”

“Quite well,” Edward leaned on his stick, “Thomas and I were just in London handling some business, nothing terribly exciting. And you? You seem to have picked a mad day for the train.”

“An ill-fated day, to be sure,” Mary said. “Though perhaps we’re the lucky ones—there was a derailment further down the line.”

“Oh, how awful!”

“Mm,” Mary agreed. “They’re working like men possessed, but things won’t be running again until late into the evening.”

“You aren’t stuck here, are you?” Edward asked.

“Matthew’s just there, trying to find a hotel,” Mary said, waving a hand, “but there’s some kind of symposium going on in the city—you can’t get a room for the money in the world.”

“But you’ll be here all night!” Edward exclaimed. “In your condition!” Anna smiled at that—Thomas kept Mr. Courtenay well up to speed, it seemed. It was nice to see him use his talent for observation and gossip productively.

“No,” Mr. Courtenay went on, “that won’t do. You’ll have to stay with us, I’m afraid.” Thomas, who had been content to sit on the sidelines of this conversation, looked suddenly alarmed—Anna saw his grip tighten on Edward’s arm in silent protest, but Mr. Matthew’s sudden return from the office saved them from an uncomfortable moment.

“Darling, you must be—my word! Edward and Barrow! Hello! Fancy us meeting like this!”

“We’ve heard of your troubles,” Mr. Courtenay answered, “you’ll have to stay with us for the night.”

“I couldn’t impose—” Matthew ventured, with a questioning look at Mary, who gave him a look that said _yes we absolutely could_—

“I really must insist,” Mr. Courtenay pressed. Thomas grimaced, but held his tongue.

“I’ll admit, I have been rather curious about your city digs,” Mary said, good humor restored.

“Well, it’s no Downton Abbey,” Thomas blurted, rudely. Mary only raised an eyebrow.

“Few places are,” she replied, not one to take a challenge lying down.

“_Mary_,” Matthew hissed.

“It’s big enough for two more,” Mr. Courtenay said, with a reproachful look.

“Three more, I’m afraid.” he turned, confused, and Anna spoke up:

“I’m sorry, Mr. Courtenay, for not introducing myself. I’m Anna Bates—”

“Oh! Mrs. Bates!” he exclaimed. “I’m terribly sorry—” he offered a hand, and she stood to accept it. “Of course you are welcome as well, I’ve heard so much about you—”

“_Where_ will she stay?” Thomas asked, bluntly. “Have her bunk with Phyllis?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that. We’ll think of something,” Edward said, reassuringly. “It’s stifling in here—let’s get a cab. We may have to split up, I’ll give you the address—”

* * *

Ann would admit she was just as curious as Lady Mary when it came to Thomas’—and she nearly blushed to think of it in such terms— love nest. She nearly pressed her face to the window as the cab rolled to a stop, but couldn’t find anything particularly scandalous the house. It was grey stone, set just off the street behind a gated stone wall, with a shingled roof and a red door and flowers spilling out of boxes under the many windows. I she hadn’t known about the occupants and their salacious arrangement, she wouldn’t have given it a second glance.

_It is very pretty_, she thought, with a pang of envy, but she put it aside. She was lucky to have her dear little cottage, and very pleased to share it with such a fine man as her husband.

_And we don’t have to pretend otherwise_, she reminded herself.

She hurriedly exited the cab, to help Lady Mary disembark while Mr. Matthew paid the fare, and overheard a conversation from one of the open windows—

“I just wish you’d ask me, at least, meeting at lunch is one thing but this is our _home_—”

“I couldn’t just leave them there, she’s pregnant and there’s no room at the inn—”

“The Lady Mary is hardly riding into town on an ass—”

“You’re _being_ an ass—”

Anna opened the car door, and took as much of Lady Mary’s weight as she could while her Ladyship eased her way onto the pavement. It wasn’t entirely proper for her to do so, but she had a feeling Thomas was disinclined to perform any of the duties of a footman—and she couldn’t blame him. Or at least, she wouldn’t, for the sake of a roof over her head.

The front door swung open, just as she was reaching up to knock. “Come in, come in,” Mr. Courtenay wasn’t quite waving in their direction, but she felt the warmth of the gesture all the same. “The girls were in today, so everything should be tidy and presentable, thank heavens…”

The door opened into a long cream-colored hallway, with doors leading off in three directions and a set of stairs just past the threshold. There were hooks for coats and hats, and a low set of shelves holding brushes and oil—a makeshift boot room, she supposed.

“I assume you’ll want to settle in upstairs,” Edward was saying. “I’m just going to talk to Mrs. Anderson about dinner—Thomas, would you—?”

Thomas set his mouth in a thin line, but only replied: “I’ll take care of it.”

With that, Edward was gone, turning and finding the door without any trouble—Anna supposed he knew his own house well enough. Thomas stayed at the foot of the stairs, eyeing the travelers with barely-concealed resentment.

“We really do appreciate your hospitality,” Mr. Matthew ventured, sensing ruffled feathers.

“He’s got a bleeding heart,” Thomas said, coolly. He started up the stairs, but stopped only two steps up, turning to face them.

“This is _our_ house,” he said, firmly. “Both of us. It’s not going to be like when we go out in public. I’m not going to pretend like we’re not— together.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to,” Matthew provided, smoothly.

“Good,” Thomas said, somehow more cross for the reassurance. “Because if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Lady Mary looked as shocked as if Thomas had slapped her full in the face, but he didn’t take any time to revel in having gotten one over on her—he charged up the steps, not looking back to see if they followed. Mr. Matthew offered his arm, and Lady Mary took it without a word.

Anna wondered just how long she’d hold her tongue.

* * *

Lady Mary would have nothing to change into for dinner, but Mr. Matthew was assuring her that “I don’t think things here will be _quite_ so formal, my darling.” A chance to freshen up would likely do her a world of good, and Anna set her toiletries out in the washroom before quietly taking her leave. She found Thomas in the hallway, huffing and puffing as he hauled a mattress up the stairs.

“Please, Mr. Barrow, let me—” she started, but he pushed past without a word. She trailed in his wake, clutching her own small traveling bag, and followed into a room at the end of the hall. Clearly, it was meant to be a bedroom—there was a fireplace, dusty with disuse—but now was home to a collection of trunks, disused furniture, suitcases, and other odds and ends. Thomas dropped the mattress unceremoniously on a little iron-framed cot.

“I’ll get you some linens,” he muttered. The closet was just outside, and she watched him select the appropriately sized sheets and—to her surprise—a thick wool blanket, followed by a patchwork quilt. The effect of his thoughtfulness was ruined when he dumped the bedclothes on the cot in a tangled heap.

“You can sort it out from here,” he said, and turned to go.

“Mr. Barrow—” she started, and he stopped short, looking at her with icy blue eyes. She found she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to him, only that she felt compelled to speak. “Thank you,” she settled on. “For—opening your home to us.”

“Wasn’t my idea,” he said, but he didn’t leave. He looked at her for a long moment.

“If—if anyone asks,” he said, unsteadily, “this—” he motioned to the cot, “—is where I sleep. If it comes to that, you’ve got to tell them you saw me kip up here, understand?”

“No one will ask,” Anna said. “We _know_.”

“Yes, well. Not everyone’s so pleased about it,” Thomas sneered. “The least you can do is give us a good turn, if need be.”

“I’ll tell them,” she assured him. “I’ll say I slept across the door step to protect Lady Mary’s virtue.”

“A little late for that, I think,” Thomas replied, flippantly, and before she could protest he was gone.

Anna wondered why she bothered.

Mr. Courtenay found her later, frightening her half to death when he stuck his head through the door: “Anna? Are you here?”

“Sir?”

“We’re having tea down in the living room, it’s on the left off the main hall. Dinner will run late, I’m afraid— Mrs. Anderson has decided to make a _thing_ of it, in light of our guests.” He looked chagrined. “Do you think you could—round up Mary and Matthew? I don’t want to—” he made a vague gesture, which Anna took to mean that he didn’t have any more idea of how to navigate this odd situation than she did. It seemed that, for all his—curious preferences—he could no more barge into a married woman’s bedroom than he could learn to fly.

“I’ll tell her Ladyship straightaway,” Anna promised.

“Ah, good. Thank you, I’m much obliged—just to the left, second off the front door—”

* * *

The living room, which Anna might have been inclined to call the front parlor in a more traditional household, seemed normal enough. It was smaller than the large, airy sitting rooms of Downton, toeing the line between cozy and cramped. There was a large fireplace, and a cluster of overstuffed chairs, a couch, and a lone ottoman surrounding it, with a long, low table in the middle.

Despite promises that the maids had been in to clean, there seemed to be an undo amount of clutter—books with thick pages, framed pictures and knick-knacks, sheaves of lose paper, a forgotten pair of glasses with dark lenses—Anna felt a twinge of professional disapproval. If she were in charge, she’d have strong words with the girls responsible for tidying up.

But she wasn’t—in fact, she probably should excuse herself. But she’d been given no instructions on where to take her tea, and was loathe to wander the house on her own. So she hovered near the door, while Lady Mary settled herself primly on the couch and Mr. Matthew went to examine the pictures on the mantel.

Thomas appeared in the door, mood unimproved, carrying an enormous platter. Anna watched enviously as he carried the spread—hardboiled eggs, thick-cut ham, sliced cheese, pickles and slabs of brown bread—to the low table, next to a stack of waiting plates.

“Well,” he said, with a gesture. “Tuck in.”

“Barrow, won’t you—?” Mr. Matthew started, but Thomas had already left the room. “—join us,” he finished, clearly annoyed. Anna set about making a plate, presenting it to Lady Mary, who took it with approval.

“I imagine he’s not keen to wait on us again,” Mary said. Anna imagined the food had gone a long way towards mollifying her. “Anna, you must be starving.”

“Should I—?” Anna started, uncertain. Mary waved a hand, mouth full of sandwich, and Mr. Matthew translated: “do sit, I’d feel like a prat sending you out in the hall.”

Anna wasn’t ungrateful, but she did feel uneasy. She nibbled her egg as delicately as she could, unable to put her finger on why this was somehow more awkward than finding Lady Mary still wrapped in a lover’s embrace.

“Hello!” That was Mr. Courtenay, standing in the door and holding his own tray. Anna nearly dropped her plate when she saw it was loaded with tea things.

“Mr. Courtenay, you mustn’t—” she started, but he cut her off.

“No, no, I insist—tell me, is there room on the table?”

“Ah—” Mr. Matthew stacked the loose books and paper, condensing as much of the clutter as he could. “Please, let me—”

“No,” Mr. Courtenay, told him, firmly, and the room held its breath as he took slow, careful steps, stopping just before the table and gently—tentatively—setting it down.

“That’s my party trick,” Mr. Courtenay said, glibly. Mr. Matthew laughed nervously—like he wasn’t sure that he should.

“How do you take it?”

“Two sugars, if you’d be so kind,” Mary said, without missing a beat. It wasn’t the most efficient tea service, as he was painfully slow-going, but Mr. Courtenay found the tongs and dropped them into the cup easily enough.

“Say when,” he said, pouring the tea in a long amber ribbon. Lady Mary called it just a hair too early, but Anna took the cup and saucer and brought it to her without saying anything.

“It took me ages to get it right,” Mr. Courtenay said, readying another cup. “It gave new meaning to the phrase ‘crying over spilled tea’.”

“And Barrow—?” Mr. Matthew asked, unable to finish the question.

“Oh, Thomas thinks I’m mad to insist on it,” Mr. Courtenay said, cheerfully. “I’m sure it’s a slight to him as a professional, but— well. It never occurred to me that I might wake up and not be able to do it for myself. Mrs. Bates? Milk?”

“Just a drop,” she said, weakly. Then, belatedly—“sir.”

He offered her the cup, and she accepted it gratefully. It gave her something to do that wasn’t talking.

“When Matthew got out of the wheelchair he walked to the village every chance he got,” Mary said, over the rip of her cup. “It’s a wonder he bought a car at all.”

“Oh? What sort of car?” Mr. Courtenay asked politely.

“A two-seater,” Matthew answered, quickly. He seemed grateful had sidestepped the question of his time in the wheelchair. “It’s a pretty little thing.”

“Is it fast?”

“It goes at a terrific lick. Mary’s a speed fiend.”

“No more than you are,” Mary replied. “You ought to be more careful.”

“Oh, but it’s marvelous,” Mr. Courtenay beamed, “Thomas hates it when I stick my head out the window, but I love to feel the wind.”

There was another lull in the conversation, and Mary helped herself to a wedge of cheese.

“Is this you up here?” Matthew asked, gesturing to the mantle.

“Is what me?” Mr. Courtenay asked, pleasantly. “Sorry, you’ll have to specify.”

“Oh—ah, the picture here, on the mantle,” Matthew shifted, awkwardly. “From the war?”

Anna looked up—there were two framed pictures on the mantle. One, she realized, was in fact Mr. Courtenay—he looked so young and dashing in his lieutenant’s uniform, badges and pips shining even in the tintype. She realized why she hadn’t immediately recognized him—the man in the picture stared directly in the camera with a focused stare, and there were no scars around his eyes.

The other picture was of Sergeant Barrow.

“Is that where he put it?” Mr. Courtenay rolled his eyes. “He told me he was rearranging things. I told him to chuck it out. I don’t look like that anymore.”

“I didn’t know you were mentioned in dispatches,” Matthew said, awkwardly pivoting from the bitter pronouncement. 

“Oh, I wasn’t. That was Thomas. He’s as gallant as he is vain,” Mr. Courtenay said, but he smiled fondly. “Really. Has he got _all_ the medals up there?”

Anna craned her neck—there, mounted on velvet and set behind glass, was a neat row of medals, along with brass badges, buttons and silver pins—some she recognized as coming off Thomas’ kit, and some that must have been Lieutenant Courtenay’s.

“It’s artfully done. He should offer his services,” Mary commented.

“A man of many talents,” Mr. Courtenay smiled.

“I should like to get your things out of the drawer and displayed properly,” she continued, tapping her chin with a thoughtful finger.

“Do I get any say in it?” Mr. Matthew asked.

“None at all,” Mary replied. “Ah, here’s Barrow now.”

Thomas looked at her, warily, but didn’t say anything to her greeting. He stood behind Mr. Courtenay’s chair. Mr. Courtenay craned his head backwards, as if looking for Thomas.

“We’re talking about how conceited you are,” Mr. Courtenay said, cheerfully. Thomas raised an eyebrow, then looked to where Matthew was standing by the mantel, and scowled.

“A man’s allowed to be conceited in his own house,” he groused. “I did my bit.”

“Don’t be that way, I’m only teasing. Sit down, have a cup of tea.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, I just wanted to remind you I put the leaves in the dining room table.”

“Oh, good. Thank you.”

“So don’t forget, it’s bigger now. Don’t walk into it,”

“I won’t forget,” Mr. Courtenay promised. “Now do sit down, dinner won’t be ready for a half-hour yet.”

“I’m busy—” Thomas protested, but Mr. Courtenay was already pouring a small stream of milk into a cup.

“You have to take it now, you know I don’t care for milk,” he said, mischievously. Thomas looked for a moment like he might refuse, but accepted the cup with a grimace. He looked between Mary and Matthew for a long moment, before sitting on the arm of Mr. Courtenay’s chair. He said nothing, but his expression challenged them comment on it.

Mr. Courtenay put an affectionate hand on Thomas’ knee. “Barbarian,” he said, fondly. “We have company, act like a civilized person.”

“That’s what you get,” Thomas replied, flippantly, “this is what comes of marrying down.”

Anna almost choked on a mouthful of ham. Mr. Matthew went pink, and even Mary was suddenly very absorbed in her cup of tea. Thomas, whose mouth had always been quicker than his good sense, seemed taken aback by his own daring.

There was a long pause.

“So it’s going well, I take it?” Mary asked, delicately.

Mr. Courtenay broke into a smile, bashful but genuine. “Very well,” he said, giving Thomas’ knee an affectionate squeeze. Thomas looked down at him, unmistakably fond—an expression so alien to his face that Anna couldn’t help but stare—and smoothed a coppery-brown curl off Mr. Courtenay’s forehead.

“I didn’t catch what you were doing in London,” Mr. Matthew asked.

“Picking another fight with the pension office, I’m afraid,” Mr. Courtenay replied, mildly. “Thomas has been leading the charge on my behalf. If he had his way I’d be down there waving a bayonet and threatening revolution.”

“You earned that money,” Thomas was stubborn as ever. “You should get what you’re owed.”

“I agree,” Lady Mary interjected. “They can hardly be stingy, with—your condition.”

“We can manage,” Mr. Courtenay said, and it seemed a signal to drop the subject. Thomas, for his part, favored Lady Mary with a rare grateful look.

Now, Anna had seen _everything_.

Distantly, she heard the front door open and shut. Thomas and Edward seemed to turn as one, and it occurred to her just how compromising their position was, should an unwelcome guest come barging in. She turned, craning her head, but there was no policeman waiting in the hall. A woman, dark hair and dark eyed, a little worn but with a kind looking face, stuck her head through the open door.

“I’m terribly late, so don’t wait up for—oh!” She put a hand in front of her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you had guests…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Thomas said, relaxing. “Phyllis, you remember Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew Crawley?” he gestured, lazily, for the Crawleys benefit: “Miss Phyllis Baxter.”

For all Thomas’ blasé attitude, Miss Baxter paled and dropped her gaze in a way that screamed ‘career service’. “Milady,” she said, eyes downcast, “Sir.”

“You’ll have tea, won’t you?” Mr. Courtenay asked.

“No thank you, I’ll just be headed up—” Anna heard the click of retreating heels against the staircase.

“Oi! Dinner’s up in a quarter hour!” Thomas shouted after her, but Anna heard no response. He turned back to a bewildered Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew. “A friend of mine from way back,” he said, by way of explanation. “Distant cousin, actually.”

“She seems nice,” Mr. Matthew offered, diplomatically.

“Between jobs at the moment,” Thomas said. Anna thought she saw gears starting to turn in Thomas’ head. “She’s renting a room until something shakes loose.”

“Stop that, we’re not charging her rent.” Mr. Courtenay rolled his eyes. “She’s a very talented seamstress.”

“Among other things,” Thomas said, cryptically. He heaved himself up onto his feet, and set his cup down on the table. “Speaking of dinner, I’ll lay the table— sit tight, I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“I’ll come with you,” Anna said, automatically. She glanced at Lady Mary—“unless your Ladyship—?”

“That’s very kind of you,” Lady Mary said. “I can manage.”

Mr. Courtenay held out his hand, and Thomas took it in a practiced gesture. “Thank you,” Mr. Courtenay said, giving him a little squeeze.

Thomas smiled. “Always.”

* * *

The dining room was bare compared to the chaos in the living room, with only a simple wood cabinet against one wall and a few mismatched chairs set around the table—which currently dominated the center of the room, enlarged to accommodate their party. The only other furniture was an upright piano shoved into a corner, and Anna eyed with interest as Thomas rummaged in the cabinet. He emerged with armfuls of more sturdy, cream colored flatware that matched the tea set. Anna took a stack of plates, and began laying them out as evenly as she could.

“You’re quiet,” Thomas said. Anna looked up.

“It’s been a long day,” she answered, diplomatically. 

Thomas huffed. “I’m sure it has. Hope you’re not expecting _service à la russe_.”

“It won’t kill them to go without for a night,” Anna replied, evenly. She went to the cabinet, where she saw a stack of glasses, but found Thomas was still watching her.

“I’m sure it will be lovely,” she said. “It _is_ lovely.”

Thomas scoffed.

“Glad you’re enjoying your stay in the house of ill repute.” Before Anna could protest, Miss Baxter reappeared, still looking nervous.

“I’ll go out,” she said, “I wish you’d told me you were having guests—”

“I didn’t _know_ we were having guests,” Thomas said, crossly. “It was Edward’s idea, be stroppy with _him_. Besides, you’ll do no such thing—you live here. You eat with us.”

Miss Baxter pressed her mouth in a thin line, but didn’t refuse. Anna went to her and offered her hand.

“I’m Mrs. Anna Bates,” she said, “I’m her ladyship’s maid.”

Miss Baxter took her hand and relaxed very slightly. “You must forgive me. We don’t usually entertain for such esteemed guests.”

Thomas rolled his eyes.

“Are you in service, then?” Anna asked, cautiously. Miss Baxter smiled, but it was sad.

“I was,” she said, “a long time ago.”

“And yet here we are, fetching and carrying like the rare old times,” Thomas said, before disappearing into the kitchen. Miss Baxter raised an eyebrow.

“He doesn’t mean it,” she assured Anna, “don’t let him get to you.”

“We worked together, before the war. I’m used to it.”

Baxter nodded, sadly. “He’s only like this when he’s nervous. He’ll come around.”

“He must be nervous all the time, then,” Anna muttered.

Baxter smiled, but it was sad. “You’d be surprised.”

Anna found she regretted her words.

* * *

Dinner, Anna was excited to learn, was a proper Sunday roast: a beautiful side of beef with generous plates of peas, potatoes, and pudding all waiting to be smothered in gravy. Something about the food comforted her, set her at ease—sharing a table with Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew was already nerve-wracking, she might have cried if they’d been asked to nibble on canapes and mousse. She wondered briefly, if Mary would turn her nose up at simple fair, but her Ladyship accepted the slices of beef Thomas carved for her and began spooning mashed potatoes onto her plate without complaint.

Thomas slid the next plate in front of Mr. Courtenay. “Roast on the right,” he said, “veg left.”

“Pudding north,” Mr. Courtenay murmured. Thomas surveyed the table, lips pursed in thought.

“Red or white?” he asked, finally. Mr. Courtenay turned.

“You want wine?” he asked. Thomas didn’t answer. Mr. Courtenay shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Dealer’s choice?”

Thomas pushed back his chair, and disappeared from the room. There was a familiar hollow pop from the kitchen, and when Thomas returned he set the open bottle on the table.

“I opened the Bordeaux. Will you take some?”

“Oh, I didn’t think we had any left,” Mr. Courtenay said, lowering a forkful of potato back to his plate.

“There’s another bottle, but that’s the last of it.”

“Let’s put them both out. We’re a jolly little party. Matthew? Mary? Can I tempt you?”

Thomas poured a glass for Mr. Courtenay, then set the bottle pointedly in front of Mr. Matthew and left him to his own devices. Lady Mary held up her glass, expectantly, and Matthew smiled indulgently at her as he filled it.

“Anna?” Mr. Matthew called. “Can I tempt you?”

“I’m not sure—” she hesitated.

“Please, try it,” Mr. Courtenay said. “Thomas has a keen nose for vintage.”

She glanced at Lady Mary, who raised an eyebrow. “Don’t refuse on my account,” she said, and Anna handed her glass across the table. Other than special occasions, she didn’t drink much. Matthew held out the bottle to Miss Baxter, but she shook her head in silent refusal.

“I hope you had at least a little fun in London,” Mary said, breaking the long moment of comfortable eating-induced silence. “Aunt Rosamund tells me the weather’s been gorgeous.”

“Mostly business, I’m afraid. There were a few other errands, a quick check-up on Harley Street for the two of us.”

“Oh? I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“Other than the obvious?” Edward asked, cheekily. Thomas smirked. “No, Sergeant Barrow likes to fuss, is all. If he had his way I’d have a checkup every fortnight.”

“I’m following the schedule precisely as it’s laid out—”

“Yes, nanny,” Mr. Courtenay rolled his eyes.

“I did learn a thing or two in the medical corps,” Thomas muttered, rather put out. “They didn’t make me a sergeant for my dashing good looks.”

“But I’m sure they didn’t hurt,” Mr. Courtenay replied, in an appeasing tone, bringing a careful forkful of beef to his mouth. He set it down, suddenly—“Oh! I forgot! We did see Edith when we were in London!” 

“Did you?” Lady Mary asked, suddenly keen. “Where?”

“We met for luncheon,” Thomas cut in, just a hair too quickly.

“No, we had luncheon last time,” Mr. Courtenay corrected. “We had tea at the flat with her and Mr. Gre—” Thomas had been trying to covertly poke at Mr. Courtenay under the table, but it was too late. His mouth snapped shut, but Anna caught the widening of his cataract-grey eyes.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Thomas muttered, rubbing his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Mary asked, dangerously calm. “At the flat with _whom_, did you say?”

Mr. Matthew drained his glass.

“Please,” Mr. Courtenay said, “oh, _please_ forget I said anything—I promised I would be discreet—”

“I’m afraid I can’t leave the matter alone,” Mary said, crisply. Mr. Matthew put a hand on hers.

“Darling,” he said, evenly, “we had a pretty good idea that they were spending time together—”

“In his flat?” Mary asked, scandalized.

“He’s a good man,” Mr. Courtenay said, “and he means to do the right thing by Lady Edith, I will swear to it—”

“He can mean to do it all he likes, but until I see some action on that front—” Mary started, but Matthew took her hand in his.

“Darling,” he said, very pointedly. “Let’s not do this now. Edith can manage her own scandal. And besides,” he gave her a meaningful look, “glass houses.”

Mary looked distinctly sour. Anna took a gulp of her own wine, hoping to steady her nerves.

“—absolute disgrace,” Thomas was saying to Mr. Courtenay, who had gone pink. “It’s a wonder half of York doesn’t know about us, much less Lady Edith.”

“It’s a good job they didn’t want me for Intelligence,” Mr. Courtenay muttered.

“It certainly is! The country would go overnight!”

“I feel so dreadful,” Mr. Courtenay said, turning back to Lady Mary. “I’ve spoiled it for her.”

“You mean I’m going to spoil it for her,” Mary said, dark eyes flashing.

“I’m begging you not to,” Anna was touched—he sounded rather heartfelt. “She’s been such an angel. She’s had no luck at all until now—”

“Is it lucky to fall in with a married man?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Mr. Courtenay said. “All the greatest loves are star-crossed, at least a little bit. Take it from me.”

“Star-crossed,” Thomas murmured, mockingly, but the tips of his ears went pink.

“Poor Edith, it does seem she was born under a frightful star,” Mr. Matthew said, diplomatically.

“If she disgraces the family I won’t forgive her,” Mary pronounced. “And if the baby’s a girl then ‘Edith’ is crossed _right_ off the list.”

“You weren’t seriously considering it to begin with,” Matthew said, wearily.

“Of course I wasn’t, but it’s the principle of the thing,” she replied, primly.

“’S not the worst thing in the world, being the family disgrace,” Thomas said. The bitterness in his voice belied the lightness of his words, and the mood at the table plummeted. You could have heard a pin drop. “Things work out.”

“They certainly do,” Mr. Courtenay assured him. He reached under the table and set a hand on Thomas’ knee. “I’m afraid we’ve done quite a number on the family’s good name.”

“Who plays the piano?” Anna blurted out, unable to stand it any longer. Lady Mary shot her a grateful look.

“Me, but not very well,” Mr. Courtenay replied.

“I flip the pages,” Thomas said, dryly, and Mr. Courtenay laughed.

“I wasn’t very good before the war, and now Thomas has to hear me plink out _Fur Elise_ like a drunk.”

“The muscle memory’s coming back,” Thomas said. “He’s better than he says.”

“Not by much. Thomas thinks it will make me better at the typewriter.”

“A typewriter!” Anna said, thinking of Gwen and the faraway days of life before the war. Where was she now? The letters had fallen off as the war dragged on and they’d lost touch…

“All the other chaps at school can bang out their papers in record time. I’m lagging behind.”

“Slow but steady wins the race,” Mr. Matthew said.

“There’s slow and then there’s positively glacial,” Mr. Courtenay said, “but it’ll be worth it to be able to compose my own strongly-worded letters.”

When it came to strongly-worded letters, Anna wondered if there was anyone in the world as qualified as Thomas.

Dinner finished up without a hitch. Dessert was baked apple dumplings with a beautiful dusting of powdered sugar, which only Mr. Courtenay declined. Mary convinced him to play the piano, and he managed to plunk out an unsteady but passible rendition of _There’s A Long, Long Trail_ and had the party singing along in due time. Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary shared a long, meaningful look, and he reached over and put a very reverent hand on her belly.

Anna pushed down a curl of jealousy. _It will be my turn soon enough_.

“If everyone’s done, I’ll just collect these—” Thomas said, going for the plates, but Miss Baxter stopped him—

“I’ll do it,” she said. “You have guests.”

“Oh, we couldn’t ask you to do that,” Mr. Courtenay said, from the piano, but Miss Baxter shook her head.

“No, I insist,” she was gathering up armfuls of plates. “No, Mrs. Bates, I’ve got it— let this be my thanks for a lovely dinner.”

Thomas gave her a long, regarding look. “Well,” he said, “we’ll get out of your way, then.”

* * *

Lady Mary, who’d had a long day, made her excuses and went up for an early in the evening. Once Anna had her settled, she was tempted to do the same, but Mary stopped her short—

“Oh, do go have a little fun. There’s no point of an adventure if you just turn in early in the middle.”

She decided to split the difference—there was a bit of spare mending in her bag that she’d brought to work on for the train ride, and it would be a relief to get it finished tonight. She crept down the stairs, fabric in hand, and found herself hovering outside the living room, not quite ready to just invite herself back in.

“You mustn’t tell Rose you’ve got a wireless in the house,” Mr. Matthew was saying. “She’ll invite herself over and never leave.”

“She’s welcome to do so,” Mr. Courtenay was rummaging in a box, before emerging triumphantly with a cigar and offering it up to Mr. Matthew, who took it gratefully.

“She might fit in here,” Thomas drawled. “Heard she runs with a wild crowd.”

“True enough, unfortunately,” Mr. Matthew said. “Though how you heard, I’d like to know.”

“I have my sources,” Thomas said, with that infuriating look of his.

“I think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Courtenay said. He disappeared into the next room—a study, with a desk and a typewriter and more piles of junk— and emerged with a pipe clenched in his teeth. “Picked it up in the trenches, I’m afraid. Thomas, you’ve a light, be a sport give it here please—”

For the first time that evening, Thomas didn’t snap-to. “Is that wise?” he asked, lightly.

“I don’t think it unwise.”

“We just spoke to the doctor,” Thomas chided, gently. “He said—”

“I know what he said,” Mr. Courtenay looked annoyed. “I think I can smoke a pipe every now and again.”

“But you shouldn’t—”

“If my lungs go the way of my eyes, you can drag me up to the pension office and you’ll have a brand new dance to start up with them,” Mr. Courtenay rolled his eyes.

“Teddy—” he sighed, and Anna nearly choked. _Teddy_. Somehow hearing a sweet little pet name from Thomas was the thing that nearly sent her over the edge. The meanest man in North Yorkshire, in his dear little cottage having a lover’s quarrel. Another time, she might have teased him within an inch of his life—

\--but it would be a poor repayment for his hospitality. In any case, the others at the Abbey would never believe it, even if she did tell them—which she wouldn’t, as a favor to her host.

Well, maybe Mr. Bates. But he’d keep it quiet.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mrs. Bates?” Thomas snapped, and she felt properly chastised. It occurred to her, distantly, that she hadn’t seem him smoke all day.

“I’ve been silly and left all my pins at home,” she ventured. “I was wondering—if I could impose, and borrow—?”

“Sure you can,” Thomas said, irritated. “I’ll get some. C’mon.” He brushed past Mr. Courtenay, clearly frustrated, but paused at the door.

“Matches in the cigar box,” he said, coolly.

* * *

Thomas’ office was tidy—much tidier than the glimpse she’d had of Mr. Courtenay’s study, or the living room. It reminded her in a way of Mr. Carson’s pantry, on a larger scale—but she suspected Thomas would _not_ appreciate the comparison and kept it to herself. The office had a desk and a nearby bookshelf, but also a low work table and a clothes-horse near the fire. Thomas rummaged in one of the desk drawers, emerging with a neat sewing kit.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas muttered, rifling through it. “I think Phyllis has my pins. Hang on—” he disappeared into the hallway, and she listened for his retreating footsteps for a long moment. When he didn’t immediately return, she seized on her chance to snoop around.

_Turnabout is fair play_, she thought, running a finger over the tomes on the shelves. She recognized some as ledger books, like the one lying open on the desk filled with neat rows of numbers. There was another, smaller book, with a handwritten label in Thomas’ meticulous script reading ‘Clients’. She flipped through the pages, and found entries with name, address, and some quick notes—including what looked like measurements. There were neat stacks of magazines, mostly fashion, and a few loose advertisements for menswear.

There were a few framed pictures on the desk— postcards from the war, most with artwork dedicated to the RAMC, although one she recognized as being sold by St. Dunstan’s. There was a photograph depicting a group of young men in khaki, all smiling cheerfully except Thomas, who she found looking solemn in the back row. The caption read _No. 22 Field Ambulance, C Section— 1914_, and Anna couldn’t help but wonder where all those smiling boys were now.

The other picture was much more recent—and more than a little shocking. Anna flushed as she picked up the frame—Thomas in his smart suit, hair slicked back, with Mr. Courtenay sitting so close he practically spilled into Thomas’ lap. He had his arm around Thomas’ shoulder, and Thomas had an arm around his waist, free hands clasped together—the two of them twined with their heads together in an embrace that not couldn’t be explained as anything other than—

Thomas snatched the photograph out of her hand, and pushed it facedown on the desk.

“That’s _private_,” he nearly snarled.

“Then don’t leave it lying out,” Anna said, sharper than she meant for being startled. Thomas’ expression hardened, and she thought of Baxter’s words.

“It’s a nice picture,” she said, softer. “I didn’t know they made...” she trailed off.

Thomas shot her an unimpressed look, but he seemed mollified. “There’s a man in town,” he said, softly, brushing his fingers against the back of the frame. “Bohemian. Thinks he’s an artist. Makes his money taking scandalous photos.” He met her eyes, challenging: “Fancy one yourself?”

“I might,” Anna answered, without blinking. “Mr. Bates might find it a treat.”

Thomas looked away first.

“You’ve been busy,” Anna said, gesturing to the ledger. “You wear a lot of hats in this house.”

“Jack of all trades, master of none,” Thomas replied, modestly. “Don’t think Teddy ever had a head for figures, and its harder for him now…” he trailed off. “The numbers get away from him. Besides, it’s easier to just manage our finances as one.”

“And the clients?” Anna asked.

“Nosy. It’s rude to poke about.” For a moment, she thought Thomas wouldn’t answer. He rolled the pincushion back and forth in his hands. “With the allowance Ted could afford to keep me on, working as a valet. But the lads at the college—” he shook his head. “Not on a pension or charity. Most of them hadn’t dreamed of wanting one, before the war, but now…” he weighed his words carefully.

“They like to know they look good. Properly dressed, and not by some maiden aunt who hasn’t been to London in this century. On a special occasion, they like to know their clothes are brushed, shoes shined, bowtie’s straight…” he shrugged. “Shave and a haircut. Little things. Makes ‘em feel normal again. ‘Specially if their face got the worst of it.”

Anna was touched. “That’s lovely. They trust you.”

Thomas went a little pink. “It’s Edward they trust. They know we worked together during the war.”

“What does he think of it?”

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “He thinks I should go to back school, learn something that’s not just trade work. And maybe I would have, before the war—or if things were different now. But I like what I do—I like working on my own terms. I’ve even gotten Phyllis some work, tailoring and bespoke, and she tosses some of the commission my way…I could really _make_ something of this.” There was a note in his voice she’d never heard before—proud, but not in a vain or conceited way. It was almost…hopeful. Thomas seemed to realize he’d said too much, and cleared his throat before going on:

“Besides, I do have to work, even if Ted would prefer I just sponge off the allowance.”

“Professional pride?” Anna asked, gently teasing. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I’m good at my job. _Quite_ good, not that anyone would ever let me prove it.”

“Well done you, I suppose. I think I would jump at the chance for a bit of lounging about.”

Thomas shook his head. “You sound like him. He thinks the money will never dry up. He doesn’t realize how thin the margins are.”

Anna looked around, pointedly. “It looks like you do alright.”

Thomas’ easy expression turned hard once again. “His family strings him along,” he said, hotly. “Just enough to pay for me and the house and the school. They could give him all of what he’s owed, as a lump sum—that way he could invest, stocks or properties— make that money work _for_ him. But he can’t. They keep him at their mercy—I cut corners where I can, but I can only save a few pennies at a time…it’s enough. It _has_ to be more. We _have_ to be able to save.”

“Save for what?” Anna asked, concerned. “Steady on, you’re young yet.”

Thomas gave her a long measuring look. “In case they do cut him off,” he said, softly. “In case we have to leave.”

“Leave?”

He reached over, and picked the picture. He turned it over in his hands, looking at it for a long moment before setting it back upright on the desk, facing her. “In case someone found out,” he said, softly, “who wasn’t a friend to us.”

Her stomach sank. It was strange to look at the little lover’s token, almost exactly that same as any other couple’s, and know that it could cost them so dearly.

“It’s why you’re fighting for the pension,” she said, with sudden clarity.

“It’s not even that much,” Thomas said, with a note of bitterness. “Not when you think how dearly it was bought. He’ll _never see again_. All the things he can’t have, that he’ll never do—that’s on them. They _owe_ him.”

“I should say so,” Anna agreed. “You don’t get anything? For your hand?”

Thomas offered her a half-smile. “They saved my fingers, worse luck. Can’t get anything unless it falls off—but I’m one of the lucky ones. You’ll hear no complaints.” He opened and closed his hand, and the leather glove creaked.

“John’s in the same boat,” Anna offered. “He’d be hard pressed to get anything while there’s still something below the knee, even if he couldn’t work.”

“Dunno how long I could have stayed in service proper,” Thomas admitted. “Maybe I could manage—but it gives me troubles more often than not. Can’t imagine carrying a tray in a few years. It’d be even worse if they couldn’t get all the shrapnel…”

“It’s hard for him—and you didn’t help things, you know,” Anna said, without thinking. She didn’t regret saying it—only her timing— and she stood her ground.

Thomas gave her a long, appraising look, and she thought he might start bickering again. But something gave way: “I did,” he admitted. “I had my reasons, but I’m not proud of how far I went.” He held up his hand. “Things look different, on this side of it. I’m—sorry.” 

“It’s him you should tell,” she said, but she wouldn’t press him. The simple apology had likely cost him dearly. “You should stop by and catch up, if you find yourself in Downton. He’d be impressed by your business venture.”

“Not bloody likely,” Thomas rolled his eyes. 

“The cottage is finally fixed right,” Anna went on, “it’s quite nice.”

“Is it now?” Thomas looked as though he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how. “It’s—good, then? You being wed and all?”

“ ‘Me being wed’,” Anna scoffed, lightly. Then: “It is. All our troubles are behind us now. I’m glad to be settled, with the man I love—it suits me just fine.”

Thomas nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He handed her the pin cushion, as if only now remembering why they were here at all, and she took it gratefully. “C’mon. They’ll be wondering if we ran off.” He turned to leave.

“Thomas?” she called after him, uncertainly. “If you don’t mind me saying so—the settled life suits you too, I think.”

“Yeah?” Thomas asked, warily. Anna walked to his side, and gently touched his arm.

“This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you,” she said. Thomas looked away, down at the ground, but she saw a slow smile spread across his face.

“I am happy,” he said. He turned back, and he seemed almost boyish—grinning like a fool. “I’m _very_ happy.”

* * *

The next day dawned bright and early, and after a simple breakfast they were packed and ready to leave.

“You’re a hero, you know,” Lady Mary was saying, “swooping in like that to put us up for the night.”

“Oh, it’s a pleasure, you mustn’t—” Mr. Courtenay replied, and they went back and forth like that for a while. Thomas was keeping his distance—probably wise, out on the doorstep. He’d kept himself busy calling for a cab, which was no patiently idling just outside the gate.

“Well,” he said to Anna. “This is goodbye, then.”

“Not for long, I hope,” she replied, and found she really meant it. Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” she said. “If you’re ever back in the village you should drop by.”

“Yeah, well,” he said. “If you’re ever stuck in York, we’re apparently in the hotel business now, so—” he shrugged uncomfortably. “Could you—would you do me a favor?”

Anna suppressed a familiar curl of suspicion. “Yes?”

“Miss Baxter,” he started. “She’s a lady’s maid—she’s had her troubles, but she’s a good woman and a hard worker. If something ever opened up that the Abbey—?”

“I’d write straightaway,” Anna promised. Thomas’ expression softened.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’d owe you one.”

A favor from Thomas Barrow. The possibilities were endless.

But the cab wouldn’t wait forever, and soon she was helping Lady Mary make the step up into the car, and climbing into the front seat herself. She watched with a little sadness as they rounded the corner, and the little house with the red door disappeared from view.

“Well?” Lady Mary asked, and Anna turned. “Did you enjoy your chance to catch up with Barrow?”

“I did, Milady.” Anna said. “It was different, but it was—quite nice.”

“Barrow being nice is rather different,” Lady Mary drawled, and Matthew shushed her. Anna only smiled.

Lady Mary did like to have the last word.

**Author's Note:**

> We hope that your apple trees prosper and bear  
So that we may have cider when we call next year  
And where you have one barrel, we hope you'll have ten  
So that we may have cider when we call again


End file.
